From A Distance
by CouldbeDangerous221
Summary: AU- Best-Selling author Greg Lestrade finds a new muse for his unfinished manuscript. Slightly Mystrade.


_A/N: written for lestradebbc for her birthday. _

_This was the day_, Gregory Lestrade told himself as he stepped across the threshold of local cafe he haunted on almost a daily basis. _Today was the day he was going to make progress._ He shook off some of the water droplets from his jacket and ran his hand through his slightly damp greying hair to get it out of his eyes. It was a Tuesday morning, and Tuesday mornings meant the barista on duty was Emmaline, someone who by now definitely knew him by sight. He stepped up the counter, his wet shoes slipping a little on the wooden floor, but he managed to keep his balance.

"The usual today, Greg?" Emma looked up from wiping the counter and noticed his presence.

"Er...yeah...yeah the usual." Greg bobbed his head in affirmation and dug into one of his pockets to pull out his wallet. He watched the young woman work to get his order ready and adjusted the strap of his work bag that hung from his shoulder. The cafe was mostly deserted, except for an old man sitting in the corner and reading a newspaper that Greg saw every time he came in. It was a benefit for Greg to have a quiet, almost deserted place to work, yet he could see how it could be bad for business.

"Here you go," She turned back towards him and placed a hot cup on the countertop. "Pound-eighty."He passed over a five-pound note and she dropped the coins of his change into his hand. "How's your novel coming along?" she asked, trying to make conversation.

"Um….good...it's going very well. Extremely well." He was lying through his teeth, but he couldn't bloody well tell her he had nothing. He had been coming here for weeks now to work, but he just couldn't seem to obtain any inspiration at all.

"Are you going to let me read it one of these times?"

Greg managed a weak smile. "It's pretty rough, maybe when I have a full manuscript." he excused himself and picked up his coffee from the counter.

His usual table was located in the row that laid parallel and up against the vast glass front of the shop, and he sank into the chair he had so often inhabited within the past month. The bag he had with him fell to the floor with a desolate 'thud' as he tried to keep the hopelessness at bay. His editor had called the previous night.

"How are things progressing, Gregory?" the older man's voice had crackled over the receiver and Greg was feeling the pressure of a deadline being shoved his way.

"Good, good."

"You're lying." Charles Cadwell had been more than thirty years in the business and it was almost impossible to keep the truth from him. "Give the truth Gregory. What's the word count?"

Greg had bit his lip, his stomach had been twisting in knots because of his nerves. "Zero." he had confessed in undertone.

"Louder, Gregory."

"Zero, goddamit." He had admitted, anger at himself welling up inside of him."

"Jesus Christ," his editor had exclaimed. "Greg, I've got the publishing house calling me every other day wanting a manuscript I can't give them. Now what am I supposed to tell them next time they call?"

"I'm sorry Charlie, I just don't have a clue what to write about." he had apologized.

"Listen here now," Charles' voice had become more serious. "I'm talking to Gregory fucking Lestrade, author of a best-selling novel, and man who has it in him to write another. Buck up and get something done. They will literally take anything. Go. Go out, find something obscure, make up story and put it on paper."

So here he was today. Gregory Lestrade, hoping to make progress. He got out his laptop and the screen glowed bright, illuminating his face in the dim light of the cafe. Not much natural light came in today, it being one of those gloomy stereotypical rainy London days. The blank document page looked so bare. It was embarrassing to him, this extreme case of writer's block. The last book had came so easily to him.

He looked up from the keyboard back towards the man with his newspaper. Old man. Goes to a coffee shop everyday. Wife dead. He mind ran with it and ended up in disappointment. So goddamn typical. His eyes roamed over to Emma behind the counter. Young, pretty looking lady. Barista. Probably working through school. Has a secret hidden dream. Stupid.

Sighing, he propped his chin on his hand in misery. Everything he was coming up with sounded horrible, and more frustrating: so _typica_l. He began to ignore his computer and glance out of the shop windows. The water droplets falling from the sky hit the glass panels in a rhythmic drumming. Relentless, wasn't it?

He watched the traffic go by. The endless parade of cabs and vehicles rolling down the streets lulled him into a state of boredom. Foot traffic was scarce, yet through the rains coming down, he could see a peculiar sight across the street.

Outside of the opposite store front stood a man. In one hand the ornate handle of an umbrella that was shielding him from the cold rains pouring down, in the other a lit cigarette which he smoked in what outwardly looked like a calm demeanor. _What the bloody hell was he doing outside on such a day like this?_ It looked like he was waiting for something. _Might as well wait inside if one was waiting for something in this,_ Greg thought to himself_. The guy was crazy._

* * *

><p>Although the man might have looked calm on the outside, inwardly irritation was pushing towards revealing itself in his features. He was in fact waiting. Waiting too long in his opinion. He inhaled the last drag from his cigarette and let it drop into the water that was pooling on the pavement below his feet. The faint sizzle of it being extinguished by the moisture would probably have gone unnoticed to the ear of the common man, yet Mycroft Holmes was not the common man.<p>

Irked, Mycroft transferred the handle of his umbrella to his other hand and pulled out his mobile from the depths of his jacket. With a press of a button he dialed the number he wanted. The other line picked up after the first ring.

"Where are you?" Mycroft demanded icily.

"I'm sorry, sir." The voice of Thomas, his chauffeur, come through the receiver. "The engine's having trouble, it'll be a while until I can get to you."

"How long do you think?" Mycroft inquired, his eyes scanned the area.

"Maybe an hour or so."

Mycroft hung up the mobile, frowning. The rain continued to beat down upon the fabric of his umbrella incessantly. Putting away his phone he reflected upon his situation. The water at his feet was beginning to soak into his shoes and the last thing he wanted was sodden socks. He briefly considered hailing a cab, but he decided against it. Diogenes was nothing special and being late to the club was no problem. He'd rather be driven by Thomas anyways. There was something he disliked about the ordinary mode of transportation. Yet there was no question that he had to get out of this godforsaken rain.

His eyes roved once more around him, and something caught his eye. Across the street he spied a strange sight. Through the water rivulets streaming down the glass window of a small café, Mycroft could see a man studying him intently. Uncomfortable with such intense attention from a stranger, he adjusted his jacket and wondered why he was being stared at.

The man on the other side of the glass didn't seem to know that Mycroft had realized he was staring. And if he did, he didn't seem to be ashamed at his forwardness. Mycroft suddenly wanted to know why this man had taken such an interest in him. He glanced down the street for oncoming traffic and crossed towards the sidewalk on the otherside. There was time to waste anyway, so he entered a type of place he usually didn't visit in order to investigate closer.

* * *

><p>Ideas were starting to spark and ignite in Greg's mind. The man he had spotted on the street released a goldmine of possibilities for an original character. For the life of him, Gregory could not guess at who the man could actually be in reality. His clothes looked expensive, something maybe from Savile Row. Perhaps he was a businessman? Yet there was something in his mannerism that radiated some sort of unique quality. Authority. Power. He watched as the man pulled out a mobile and started talking to some unknown recipient. Suddenly he put away the phone with a look of disgust.<p>

What happened to make him so irritated? Someone didn't show up? A deal gone the wrong way? Something definitely hadn't turned out how he expected it to. Greg watched at the man still stood where he was. He was still waiting, but waiting for what?

His mind began to race and his fingers brushed against his keyboard to start typing. He began a character study, quickly jotting down the physical characteristics of his newfound muse. Slightly auburn hair, tall stature, pale skin. He began to think of possible careers. Maybe he was a spy? Or an executive of some kind kind. Pausing for just a moment, he glanced once more out of the window to sneak another look only to swear aloud.

"_Shit,_" he murmured under his breath. His inspiration was currently crossing the road towards the little café in which he sat. Greg suddenly became conflicted with his feelings. Observation from a distance was optimal for himself. Observation in close range was going to more difficult to conceal. He was right in guessing what was to be the destination of the strange man. The quiet tinkling of a bell accompanied the opening of the door, and Gregory could hear the familiar sound of an umbrella collapsing before the man crossed the threshold to enter the shop.

It took an abundant amount of self-control for Greg to keep his eyes trained on his laptop screen instead of following the man's movement to the counter. He could hear him order in a low voice to the barista before retreating towards an armchair in the corner on Gregory's side of the cafe. Greg was all too well aware that from his new vantage point, the man could see over his shoulder towards the computer screen. Uncomfortable with this fact, Greg tried to shift the angle of the computer to remedy his problem.

Greg could see, reflected in the glass beside him, the man settle down in the comforts of the chair and prop up his wet umbrella against the wall next to him. Emma came out from behind the counter and approached her newest customer with a mug in her hand. Greg risked the smallest glance over his shoulder to see a flicker of distaste flash across his inspiration's face as he accepted the cup from her hand. He only sipped it once before setting it on the low table beside his chair.

_Fuck_. There was a flicker in the man's eyes there for a second. He knew that Greg was looking at him. _Oh damn_. Embarrassment washed over him. He saved his document that he had started and wondered how to retreat from the shop without looking like an idiot.

* * *

><p>Mycroft could see past the retreating figure of the waitress that his suspicions were right. The man he had seen staring across the street had definitely been staring at him. Right at this moment Mycroft could see him shift his computer towards a different angle and glance over his shoulder back at where Mycroft was sitting. Mycroft had had enough time to notice that what on the man's computer screen was a word document.<p>

The man had been taking notes. About him. Deep-set suspicion began to flood his mind. Who was this man? In his line of work, precautions must be taken, especially when one finds someone tailing your own actions. Was he being followed? Watched? He wouldn't put it past one of the foreign governments to send an informant to spy on him. Mycroft lifted his eyes purposefully towards the man's general direction only to have the stranger's head jerk back quickly towards the laptop that sat on the table in front of him.

Mycroft clenched his jaw. He needed to diffuse the situation now, and find out what sort of information this man knew about him...and what information he might have passed on already. He noticed the man press the hotkey command to save whatever was on his computer. He was looking to leave, and Mycroft knew he would have to do something fast unless this man was going to get away.

* * *

><p>Greg slipped on his jacket ready to shut-down his computer and return to the private luxury of being able to write at his own flat without knowing he was incringing on someone's personal life.<p>

"Do you come here often?" a voice from behind Greg made him freeze. _Oh god_. He was talking to him. Slowly Greg turned to face the man who had just spoken. It was Greg's first time being able to openly look at him in close range. His face was different, not necessarily a period face, but not the common face you would see on the street. There was an air of dignity and a sense that this man always somehow got what he wanted. Greg sat in a stupor.

"Do you come here often?" the man repeated his question again, pointedly arching an eyebrow to demand an answer.

"Er," there was a marked pause. "Yeah. Um, do you?" Greg obviously knew that the man did not, but he didn't know what else to say.

His conversation partner's lips pressed into a thin line of a sneer that faded in an instant. "No." he stated simply. "No. I usually don't frequent cafés."

Greg swallowed, nervous. "Well it's a good place. Great service. Emma...Emma's excellent." he gestured feebly towards the young woman at the counter.

"Yes. Lovely girl." the man said it in a tone of disinterest. Greg got the impression that this man hadn't come here for coffee or the comforts of the café, especially since he changed the subject quickly. "What are you working on?" A very prying and sudden question, especially from an unknown person.

"Just-work." Greg realized his laptop was still running, and although slightly turned so what was on it was out of view, he feared that this man had already guessed at what he was doing.

The man looked amused. "Work." he repeated, but doubt underlined the word. "And what is it actually that you do?"

_What is it you do? _Greg wanted ask him the same thing. "I-I'm a writer."

* * *

><p>"I'm a writer," The man answered Mycroft, yet Mycroft noted that there was a stammer on the first word. Was that a sign of deception? He wanted to see the computer screen that was being obviously hidden from him. the man went on to introduce himself. "I'm Greg Lestrade. <em>The Silver Luck?<em>" he said, seeming to think Mycroft should know who he was.

"And you're writing now?" Mycroft went to reach for coffee, but remembering his first sip of the beverage he had had, he left his hand hover above the mug for a second or two before retracting it. Why on god's earth was an _author _so interested in him. He still wasn't convinced this man was not collecting information about him to pass on to someone else.

"Erm, yeah."

Mycroft rose from his chair, and approached the small cafe table. A single hand from Mycroft reached out and spun the screen towards himself. "Oh my god, please don't." Greg's voice didn't stop him. He began to read, realizing it was a physical description about himself.

"What's this?" Mycroft demanded. None of the information on the document pointed towards his former suspicion, the man obviously didn't know anything about him besides the fact that he had just been standing out in the rain. All the other things on the page were pure fantasy with no basis of fact. But the slight irony of seeing 'spy' listed under possible careers stuck with him.

"I-uh. I saw you across the street." Greg confessed. "You're were waiting for something. It intrigued me."

Mycroft failed to see how that could be intriguing to anyone. "Yes. Millions of people wait for something everyday."

"In the rain?" Lestrade cocked his head slightly to the side. "Nobody waits out in the rain for as long as you did."

Mycroft frowned. "I was waiting for my car."

Greg chuckled. "I'm sorry? Your car? You are some rich, posh guy then aren't you?" He seemed entertained by the idea, although Mycroft for one was not happy being mocked.

"The engine's failed. My driver's fixing it."

"Oh. And you have a driver. That's brilliant." Mycroft had never had anyone poke fun at him like this in his life. He was used to respect and obedience. "Who now days has a private car and driver?"

"I do." Mycroft responded defensively.

"Yeah? Who exactly are you?"

"Not a spy, or a crime-lord as you so fancy," Mycroft ripped apart the man's assumptions that he had read from his notes.

"Obviously not." Greg took the admonishment in full stride. "But _who_ are you, seriously?"

Mycroft gritted his teeth. "Mycroft Holmes," he introduced himself, "I occupy a _minor_ position in the British Government."

"Oh yes, very _minor._" Greg pointed out, letting Mycroft know he had emphasized the word. He clearly understood that Mycroft was trying to tell him he had the power to do what he wanted with Greg, but Greg wasn't allowing himself to be scared off by idle threats. "Why didn't you just hail a cab?" Lestrade inquired, this man was the most peculiar man he had ever met.

Mycroft didn't feel like having to explain himself to this man he had only known for a few minutes. "Because I don't like being stared at by strangers, and thought I'm come over and say it." He called out what he thought was his companion's rudeness, whilst turning back the laptop to it owner. Greg turned it off and placed it inside of his carrying bag. He was ready to leave.

Mycroft, convinced that Greg was no longer a threat to security and rather annoyed with him all together, retreated back to his chair. His mobile buzzed in his pocket. It was Thomas, mostly likely on his way. In fact, he could see the faint outline of car coming down the street towards the café. He retrieved his umbrella and noticed that they were both heading towards the door at the same time.

The large black car stopped as soon as it saw Mycroft's form walk out in the still downpouring rain, and Mycroft was quick to collapse his umbrella, open the backdoor, and slide in. Through the window he could that the author that had been abusing him so much was standing out in the rain now waiting himself. They were no evident cabs passing by and he had nothing to protect him from becoming drenched.

Mycroft sighed, and the irritation in him from feeling like Greg had been making fun of him was slowly subsiding, and he began to think. Nobody had ever been interested in him before, and the fact this writer fellow had been was a rarity. He could do at the least the courteous thing.

Rolling down the window, Mycroft called out to the man. "Aren't you going to hail a cab?" he threw back one of Greg's remark towards the man.

* * *

><p>Greg's hand were stuffed in the pockets of his coat, rain beating down on him, with an irked look passing across his own face. He could barely hear what the Holmes guy was yelling at him. He heard something about a cab.<p>

"There's no bloody cabs coming!" he called back.

A thin smile passed across Mycroft's face. "Let me offer you a ride." It was a small offer to make amends.

Greg Lestrade face was blank for a moment before suddenly breaking out into a grin. "You're joking."

Mycroft simply shrugged and started to roll up the window.

"Wait! No!" Greg lurched towards the car. The rain was cold and he'd rather ride in the car than wait for a longer period of time. The back door opened. Waiting for him. Greg got in, sopping wet by the time anyways.

"Where to?" Mycroft asked him.

"Burlington Gardens." Greg answered, giving him the street his flat was on. They rode together quietly for a bit.

"You know. You're a lot different than I thought you were….from a distance." Greg remarked trying to make conversation.

"That's one thing you should always remember, Lestrade." Mycroft lectured. "Everyone appears to be someone else while observed from a distance. The true character of a man lies in the details."

Greg reflected on the last statement. _Peculiar man. But interesting all the same. _He pulled out a writer's journal from his pocket and jotted down the phrase. He also scrawled down _M. Holmes_. He would write when he got back to his flat. If Charlie wasn't happy with the ideas that were now forming in his head, Greg didn't know what his publisher wanted.


End file.
